Evilangel
Katalina Kyle, Michael Stefano Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of a single lamp, its light catching the sheen of perspiration on her flushed skin as she moved with a primal, undulating rhythm. His hands, large and possessive, roamed the generous, pillowy curves of her chest, his thumbs circling the hardened peaks that begged for his attention. A low, throaty moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was swallowed by the humid air between their bodies. He shifted his position, his own need evident, and guided himself to that other, tighter entrance, pressing agat it with a patient, istent pressure. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that signaled both anticipation and surrender as he slowly, inexorably, filled that deepest, most intimate space. The feeling was one of exquisite fullness, a stretching, burning sensation that quickly melted into waves of shocking, deep-seated pleasure with every deliberate thrust. Her nails dug into the muscles of his back, anchoring herself as the world narrowed to the raw, physical connection of their joining. The slick, rhythmic sounds of their union provided a base counterpoint to her escalating whimpers and his guttural groans of encouragement. Lost in the sensation, she arched her back, offering herself completely as they climbed together toward a shattering, mutual release that promised to leave them both breathless and spent.
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